by Ruth Ware
‘Fuck knows.’ He puts his hands over his face, as if he can grind away the sight of Kate standing there, her face blank and still.
‘How long was she standing there?’
‘I don’t know.’
My cheeks burn.
We sit, side by side on the sofa for a long, silent time. Luc’s face is impassive. I don’t know what my expression is like, but my thoughts are a confused jumble of emotion and suspicion and despair. What was she doing up there, spying on us like that?
I remember the moment the lamp flared, and her face – like a white mask in the darkness, eyes wide, mouth compressed as though she was trying not to cry out. It was the face of a stranger. What has happened to my friend, the woman I thought I knew?
‘I should go,’ Luc says at last, but although he gets to his feet, he doesn’t move towards the door. He just stands there, looking at me, his dark brows knitted in a frown, and the shadows beneath his wide cheekbones giving his face a gaunt, haunted look.
There is a noise from upstairs, a whimper from Freya, and I stand up, irresolute, but Luc speaks before I can.
‘Don’t stay here, Isa. It’s not safe.’
‘What?’ I stop at that, not trying to hide my shock. ‘What do you mean?’
‘This place –’ He waves a hand at the Mill, taking in the water outside, the dead light sockets, the rickety stairs. ‘But not just that – I –’
He stops, scrubs his free hand into his eyes, and then takes a deep breath.
‘I don’t want to leave you alone with her.’
‘Luc, she’s your sister.’
‘She’s not my sister, and I know you think she’s your friend, but Isa, you – you can’t trust her.’
He’s lowered his voice to a whisper, even though it’s impossible that Kate should hear us – three floors up, and behind a locked door.
I shake my head, refusing to believe it. Whatever Kate has done, whatever strain she’s under right now, she is my friend. She has been my friend for almost twenty years. I won’t – can’t – listen to Luc.
‘I don’t expect you to believe me.’ He’s speaking hurriedly now. Freya’s wail from above gets louder, and I glance at the stairs, wanting to go to her, but Luc is still holding my wrist, his grip gentle but firm. ‘But just – just please be careful, and listen, like I said, I think you should leave the Mill.’
‘I’ll leave tomorrow,’ I say it with a heaviness, thinking of Owen and what’s waiting for me back in London, but Luc shakes his head.
‘Now. Tonight.’
‘Luc, I can’t. There’s no train until the morning.’
‘Then come back to my flat. Stay the night. I’ll sleep on the sofa,’ he adds hurriedly, ‘if that’s what you want. But I don’t like to think of you here, alone.’
I’m not alone, I think. I have Kate. But I know that’s not what he means.
Freya wails again, and I make up my mind.
‘I’m not leaving tonight, Luc. I’m not dragging Freya and my luggage halfway across the marsh in the middle of the night—’
‘So get a cab –’ he cuts in, but I’m still talking, ignoring his protests.
‘—I’ll leave first thing tomorrow – I’ll catch the 8 a.m. train if you’re really worried, but there is no way that I’m in danger from Kate. I’m just not. I’ve known her for seventeen years, Luc, and I can’t believe it. I trust her.’
‘I’ve known her for longer than that,’ Luc says, so quietly that I can hardly hear him beneath Freya’s choking wails. ‘And I don’t.’
Freya’s cries are too loud for me to ignore now, and I pull my wrist gently out of his grip.
‘Goodnight, Luc.’
‘Goodnight, Isa,’ he says. He watches as I retreat up the stairs with the oil lamp, leaving him in darkness. Upstairs, I pick up Freya, feeling her hot little body convulsing with angry sobs, and in the silence that follows I hear the click of the door latch, and the sound of Luc’s footsteps on gravel as he disappears into the night.
I DON’T SLEEP that night. I lie awake, words and phrases chasing around my head. Pictures Kate said she had destroyed. Lies she has told. Owen’s face as I left. Luc’s face as he walked towards me in the soft lamplight.
I try to piece it all together – the inconsistencies and the heartbreak – but it makes no sense. And through the whole thing, like maypole dancers, weave the ghosts of the girls we used to be, their faces flashing as they loop over and under, weaving truth with lies and suspicion with memory.
Towards dawn one phrase comes into my head, as clear as if someone whispered it into my ear.
It is Luc, saying I should have chosen you.
And I wonder again … what did he mean?
It’s six thirty when Freya wakes, and we lie there, she feeding at my breast, me considering what I should do. Part of me knows I should go home to London, try to mend bridges with Owen. The longer I leave it, the harder it’s going to be to salvage what’s left of our relationship.
But I can’t face the thought, and as I lie there, watching Freya’s contented face, her eyes squeezed shut against the morning light, I try to work out why. It’s not because of what happened with Luc, or not just because of that. It’s not even because I’m angry with Owen, for I’m not any more. What happened last night has somehow lanced my fury, made me face the ways I’ve been betraying him all these years.
It’s because anything I say now will just be more lies. I can’t tell him the truth, not now, and not just because of the risk to his career and the betrayal of the others. But to do that would be to admit to him what I’ve already admitted to myself – that our relationship was built on the lies I’ve been telling myself for the past seventeen years.
I need time. Time to work out what to do, how I feel about him. How I feel about myself.
But where do I go, while I figure this out? I have friends – plenty of them – but none where I could turn up with my baby and my bags and no end for my stay in sight.
Fatima would say yes in a heartbeat, I know she would. But I can’t do that to her, in her crowded, chaotic house. For a week, maybe. Not longer.
And Thea’s rented studio flat is out of the question.
My other friends are married, with babies of their own. Their spare rooms – if they have any – are needed for grandparents and au pairs and live-in nannies.
My brother, Will? But he lives in Manchester, and he has his own wife and twin boys, in a two-bedroom flat.
No. There is only one place I could go, if it’s not home.
My mobile phone is beside me on the pillow, and I pick it up, and scroll through the numbers until my finger hovers over his contact. Dad.
He has room, God knows. In his six-bedroom place up near Aviemore, where he lives alone. I remember what Will said last time he came back from visiting. ‘He’s lonely, Isa. He’d love for you and Owen to come and stay.’
But somehow there has never been time. It’s too far for a weekend – the train journey alone is nine hours. And before I had Freya there was always something – work, annual leave, DIY on the flat. And then later, getting ready for the baby, and then after Freya was born, the logistics of travelling with a newborn … or a baby … or soon a toddler.
He came down to meet Freya when she was born, of course. But I realise, with a pang that hurts my heart, I have not been up to see him for nearly … six years? Can that be right? It seems impossible, but I think it must be. And then only because a friend was getting married in Inverness, and it seemed rude not to call in when we were so near.
It’s not him, that’s what I want him to understand. I love him – I always have done. But his grief, the gaping hole left after my mother died – it’s too close to my own. Seeing his grief, year after year, it only magnifies my own. My mother was the glue that held us together. Now, without her, there are only people in pain, unable to heal each other.
But he would say yes. And more than yes, I think. He – alone of everyone – would be glad.<
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It’s gone seven when I finally dress, pick up Freya and go down to the kitchen. Through the tall windows overlooking the Reach, I can see the tide is low – almost as low as it will go. The Reach is just a deep runnel in the centre of the channel, the wide banks exposed, the sand clicking and sucking as it dries and all the little creatures – the clams and oysters and lugworms – retreat and shore up until the tide turns.
Kate is still in bed – or at least she hasn’t yet come down – and I can’t help a shudder of relief when I realise Freya and I are alone. As I touch the coffee pot – checking for any vestigial warmth – I find myself looking up to the turn of the stair, where I saw her face last night, ghost-white in the darkness. I’m not sure I will ever forget it – the sight of her standing there, watching us. What was her expression? Anger? Horror? Something else?
I run my hands through my hair – try to attribute a motive I can understand to her actions. Kate neither likes nor trusts Luc – and it’s plain now that that feeling is mutual. But why stand there in the dark like that? Why not call out, stop me from making whatever mistake she thought I was committing?
Why stand there in the shadows like she had something to hide?
One thing is plain, I can’t stay here – not after last night. Not just because of Luc’s warnings, but because the trust between me and Kate is gone. Whether I destroyed it with my actions last night, or whether it was Kate and her lies, it doesn’t matter.
What matters is that part of the bedrock of my life has cracked and broken, and I feel the foundations I’ve built my adult self on shifting and creaking. I no longer know what to believe. I no longer know what to say if I’m questioned by police. The narrative I thought I knew has been ripped and broken – and there is nothing to take its place except doubt and mistrust.
Today is Wednesday. I will go back to London on the first train I can catch, pack my bags while Owen is at work, and leave for Scotland. I can call Fatima and Thea from there. It’s only when a tear runs down my nose and splashes onto Freya’s head that I realise I am crying.
No one at Rick’s Rides picks up when I call, and at last I load the bags onto Freya’s buggy and wheel her out into the cool sunshine. I bump the buggy barefoot across the rickety bridge, and shove my feet into my shoes which are still there on the far side, like strange flotsam and jetsam. Beside them is a print of two larger soles – the imprint of Luc’s shoes – and I can see his footprints trail across the shore, and disappear into the muddy confusion of the track.
I let myself out of the gate, and begin the long walk to the station, talking to Freya as I go – anything to distract myself from the reality of last night and the mess of what’s facing me in London.
I’m just turning onto the main road, when I hear the hiss of gravel and a horn beeps from behind me, making me jump. I swing round, my heart thumping – and see an ancient black Renault, coming to a halt on the verge.
The driver’s window winds slowly down, and an iron-grey head looks out, unsmiling.
‘Mary!’
‘Didn’t mean to scare you.’ Her strong, bare arm rests on the window, the hairs dark against the pale skin. Her perpetually grubby nails tap the paintwork. ‘On your way to the station?
I nod and she says, as a statement, without asking for my opinion, ‘I’ll give you a lift.’
‘Thanks,’ I say awkwardly, ‘but –’ I’m about to use the car seat as an excuse, but then my eyes drop to the pram, where Freya is snuggled into the car-seat adaptor. Mary raises one eyebrow.
‘But?’
‘B-but … I don’t want to put you to any trouble,’ I say weakly.
‘Don’t be soft,’ she says shortly, swinging open the back passenger door. ‘Get in.’
Somehow I can’t find another excuse, and I strap Freya into the rear seat and then walk around to the front passenger door and climb silently in. Mary puts the car into gear with a coughing rasp, and we begin to pick up speed.
We drive in silence for perhaps a quarter of a mile, but as we round the corner to the level crossing over the railway, I see the lights are flashing, and the barriers are coming down. A train is about to pass.
‘Damn,’ Mary says, and lets the car glide to a halt in front of the barrier. She switches off the ignition.
‘Oh no. Does this mean I’m going to miss the train?’
‘This’ll be the northbound train for London, they’ve closed for. It’ll be cutting it very fine to get there. But you might be lucky. Sometimes they wait, if they’re ahead of themselves.’
I bite my lip. I have nothing I need to get back for, but the thought of waiting at the station for half an hour with Mary is not a good one.
The silence in the car grows, broken only by Freya’s snuffles from the back seat, and then Mary speaks, breaking the quiet.
‘Terrible news, about the body.’
I shift in my seat, moving the seat belt away from my throat where it has ridden up, and somehow grown tight.
‘H-how do you mean? The identification?’
‘Yes, although I don’t think anyone round here was surprised. There wasn’t many thought Ambrose would have left his children like that. He was devoted to those kids, would have walked through fire for them. A little local scandal? I don’t think he’d have even cared, much less scarpered and left his kids to deal with the fallout.’ She taps the rotting rubber of the steering wheel, and with an impatient gesture sweeps back a frond of grey hair that’s fallen out of her pigtail. ‘But it was more the post-mortem I was thinking of.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Haven’t you heard?’ She casts me a quick glance, and then shrugs. ‘Maybe it’s not in the papers yet. I hear stuff early sometimes, what with my Mark being one of the boys. Perhaps I shouldn’t tell you, just in case.’
She pauses, enjoying the moment of power, and I grit my teeth, knowing that she wants to be begged for her insider information. I don’t want to give in to her. But I have to know. I must know.
‘You can’t leave me hanging like that,’ I say, doing my best to keep my voice light and casual. ‘I mean, I don’t want you to break any confidences, but if Mark didn’t tell you to keep it under wraps …?’
‘Well, it’s true he normally only tells me things if it’s about to be released anyway …’ she drawls. She bites her fingernail, spits out a fragment, and then seems to make up her mind, or tire of playing with me. ‘The post-mortem found traces of heroin in a bottle in his jacket. Oral overdose, they’re saying.’
‘Oral overdose?’ I frown. ‘But … that makes no sense.’
‘Exactly,’ Mary Wren says. Through her open window I can hear the sound of a distant train, growing closer. ‘Ex-addict like him? If he wanted to kill himself he’d have injected the stuff, of course he would. But then, like I said, I never did believe that Ambrose would leave those kids of his own accord – it makes no more sense for him to kill himself than run away. I’m not one for gossip –’ she brings out the lie without so much as a blush – ‘so I’ve kept my thoughts to myself. But in my mind, I never thought it was anything else.’
‘Anything else than … what?’ I say, and suddenly my voice is hoarse, sticking in my throat.
Mary smiles at me, a wide smile, showing stained yellow teeth, like tombstones in her mouth. Then she leans closer, her cigarette breath hot and rank against my face and whispers.
‘I never thought it was anything but murder.’
SHE SITS BACK, watching my reaction, seeming almost to enjoy my floundering, and as I scrabble frantically for the right words to say in response to something like that, a thought flashes through my mind – has Mary known the truth all this time?
‘I – I –’
She gives her slow, malicious smile, and then turns to glance up the track. The train is coming closer. It sounds its horn, and the lights at the level crossing blink with a maddening regularity.
My face is stiff with trying not to show my reaction, but I manage to speak.
‘I find that … I find that hard to believe though, don’t you? Why would someone murder Ambrose?’
She shrugs, her huge shoulders rising and falling heavily.
‘You tell me. But it’s easier to believe than the idea of him killing hisself and leaving those kids to fend for themselves. Like I said, he would have walked through fire for them, especially that Kate. Not that she deserved it, little bitch.’
My mouth falls open.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said he’d have walked through fire for his kids,’ she says. She is openly laughing at me. ‘What did you think I said?’
I feel anger flare, and suddenly the suspicions I’ve been having of Kate seem like vile gossip. Am I really going to let rumour and innuendo turn me against one of my oldest friends?
‘You’ve never liked her, have you?’ I say flatly, crossing my arms over my chest. ‘You’d be delighted if she were questioned over this.’
‘Truth be told? I would,’ Mary says.
‘Why?’ It comes out like a plaintive cry, like the voice of the child I used to be. ‘Why do you hate her so much?’
‘I don’t hate her. But she’s no better than she ought to be, the little slut. Nor are the rest of you.’
Little slut? For a moment I’m not sure if I’ve heard right. But I know from her face that I have, and I find my tongue, my voice shaking with anger.
‘What did you call her?’
‘You heard me.’
‘You don’t believe those disgusting rumours about Ambrose, do you? How can you think something like that? He was your friend!’
‘About Ambrose?’ She raises one eyebrow, and her lip curls. ‘Not him. He was trying to stop it. That’s why he was trying to get them away from each other.’
I feel suddenly cold all over. So it’s true. Thea was right. Ambrose was sending Kate away.
‘What – what do you mean? Stop what?’
‘You mean you don’t know?’ She gives a short hacking laugh, quite mirthless, like the bark of a dog. ‘Ha. Your precious friend was sleeping with her own brother. That’s what Ambrose knew, that’s why he was trying to get them away from each other. I went over to the Mill the night he told her, but I could hear her outside the door, before I even knocked. Screaming at him, she was. Throwing things. Calling him names you wouldn’t think a girl of that age would know. Bastard this and heartless cunt that. Please don’t do it, she says, think about what you’re doing. And then, when that doesn’t work, that she’ll make him regret it, a threat to his face, bold as you like. I got out of there as quick as I could and left them to it, hammer and tongs, but I heard that right enough. And then the very next night, he vanishes. You tell me what I should think, Miss Butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth. What should I think, when my good friend disappears, and his daughter doesn’t report him missing for weeks, and then his bones surface in a shallow grave? You tell me.’